Woe to Live On

18

THREE DAYS LATER, or so I suppose, we were there. The house was a sturdy wood one far in the hills. My mind had been on a float as we traveled. Some things I had understood. I suspect I yowled too much.

When we arrived it was late in the day. The boys helped me hop into the house. There was an old man, built thinly and bald, inside. This was Orton Brown, Howard Sayles’s father-in-law. His wife was a feminine replica of him except in regards to hair. Her name was Wilma.

“Who is this?” Orton asked Sayles.

“This is Dutchy Roedel. He’s been tweaked in the leg.”

“Oh, so that’s Dutchy Roedel. Well, lay him down.”

Holt flopped down next to me. He was somewhat grayed by his wound but not in danger of dying. Exhaustion played a big part in how he looked.

The hole in my calf itched and ached, but the bone was not shattered. That gave me confidence that my future might be a walking one. Cave Wyatt had shown off his nursing qualities and kept the thing clean and bandaged. Holt could reach his own wound and tend it, as it was mainly a bruise and a rip, so he did.

“I appreciate this of you,” I said to Orton.

“Well, I have heard of you and I am proud to help a southern man no matter how funny his name.”

“Oh, he ain’t just a southern man, Ort,” Sayles said. “This boy here is the Shelley girl’s fiancé.”

Orton raised his brows at this news.

“Good, good. I am glad to hear she has a fiancé, ’cause she is in need of one.”

“Hey, now,” I said. “I never told you I was her fiancé.”

That got me a cruel expression from Sayles.

“Aw, goin’ back to your old tricks, eh, Dutchy?” he said, then gave a soft kick at my calf. “She’s with child and you want to quibble.”

“She ain’t with child,” Orton said.

“That is for certain,” said Wilma in a stern Baptist tone. “That girl has got child now. A brown-eyed butterball of a girl child.”

When I heard that, I wanted to see that baby. I had a real need to study the face of Jack Bull’s child and dote on any resemblance.

“Where is she?” I asked. “Where is Sue Lee and the baby?”

“I’m not for sure,” Wilma said. “I believe she carried the little girl out for air. They’ll be back any time, now. They won’t stay out in the dark.”

From the house I had a view of a steep hillside, thick with oak and hickory, and a deep, clean streamed valley. It was a soothing landscape and one that made me feel safe. For the first time in a long while, I could relax and leave it to nature to concoct my cure.

Orton and Wilma and the boys jawed around as the sun went behind the hill. Howard Sayles’s wife was in Hillsboro, Texas, with his father and mother and two children. The Browns had news from there, so they shared it.

Me and Holt were off to one side of the conversation. This conflict had forced us to rely on each other, and we had learned to do it. I felt obliged toward this particular nigger. He had demonstrated backbone and superb nerve. I hoped I had done the same.

“After we get healed back healthy, what shall we do, Holt?”

“More, I reckon,” he answered. He did not face me when he said it, and it may not have been true.

“Uh-huh,” I said, harnessing my own thoughts. “More is right, but could be it’ll be more of something else. I ain’t riding with boys that’ll shoot me no more. Them days is gone.”

He nodded briskly several times.

“You got yourself a new family now,” he said. “I understand it that you don’t want to bushwhack no more.”

I’ll tell you, odd events at which I had been a mere witness were now conspiring to manage my fate, and I wasn’t used to having so little say.

“Now, Holt, that ain’t my kid and you know it.”

“It ain’t that simple,” he said, all puffed up with mysterious logic. “What you say is the truth, far as that goes, but it is too simple. And this ain’t that simple.”

I guess I have myself to blame. I listened to him. Then I sat there, throbbing at my wounded calf, somewhat absent of insight, and pondered his riddle.


When she come in, she reacted like she had seen me at the waterhole yesterday. Zero fluster came over her face. She was calm and beautiful in her scar-faced way, serene with motherhood, I supposed.

“Are you hurt again?” she asked me.

Those were her first words to me. They did not flatter me with a gush of feminine concern.

“Well, yes,” I said, “but I didn’t do it to myself, you know.” I conjured up a forlorn look. “I been shot.”

She clucked her tongue and swung the cuddly armful of babe that she carted.

“Bushwhackers have to expect that,” she said. She then smiled a wide one and sat next to me. The baby murmured and Sue Lee actually leaned over and kissed my forehead like she had the right. “It is good to see you, Jake. And you, too, Holt.”

“I hear you saying it,” I whimpered. My expectations had not been specific, but warmth and concern had been in them all. “Let me see that baby.”

“Proud to,” she said, and you could tell by her rosy visage that it was true. Man, nature has some changes in store for us all, and it had worked a good one on her. “Her name is Grace Shelley Chiles as far as I’m concerned.”

Babes don’t know anything but nipples and lullabies. They splash out looks of wonder on anybody whether they merit it or not. This one was the same, and when Sue Lee handed the seedling creature to me it did a tiny paw grab at my lips, gurgling like it knew me. Grace had eyes that leaned toward brown, and several soft wattles on her face that would harden into features.

“She is wonderful,” I said.

“She real pink,” Holt said. He then touched her quickly, and when nothing wrong came of that gesture he did it again, only this time his touch lingered. A big smile was on his face. “Babies is something I never can believe.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, look at it,” he said. “Do you believe that thing will shout and holler and haul water someday?”

To realize that this little handful was actually a person is to have faith in a miracle of dimensions. I admit that.

“I know what you mean,” I said. I placed Grace on the floor beside me and grinned at Momma. “She is sweet.”

“I know it,” she said. She then began to poke at my wound, her brow all scrunched up. “Let me see your bad spot, Jake. I want to make sure it’s clean.”

“It’s clean enough,” I said.

She shook her head and said, “No, Jake. Clean enough ain’t good enough. You should have learned that.”

I was real stoked up with feelings. I guess I wanted to be cared for. Anyway, I settled back and let her do it.


Turner, Cave and Sayles rested themselves for a few days. Sayles wanted to go join his wife and children in Texas before heavy winter was full upon us.

“You can stay here with Ort as long as you like,” Sayles said to me. “Him and Wilma have taken a shine to Sue Lee and the tiny critter.”

“My leg is fairly useless for now,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Aw,” Cave said, “get yourself well, then join us in Texas. There’ll be interesting things to do in Texas.”

“Lahk wha?” Turner asked. It was one of his rare comments. He seemed to hate speaking in his blubbery manner around women.

“Well, now,” Cave said. “There is Mexico nearby Texas. Lots of land down there and no one to claim it.”

“There’s Mexicans down there,” I said. “Quite a few of them, too, from what I hear.”

“Oh, all right. Certainly there are Mexicans down there, Dutchy. But damned few white men.”

“That sound like another fight,” Holt said.

“Probably,” Cave responded. “Probably there would be a fight. But it’d be a fight for a new start. That’s a different thing.”

“Will you go to Mex?” I asked Sayles.

“I don’t plan on it,” he said. “I only want to see my wife and kids in Texas.”

Turner Rawls cackled and snorted rudely.

“Oh, hell wid dis. Ah jine Bock Yawn.” He stared at me, the rude look still on his face. “Oo mah fwen, Yake. Ah hep oo bud now Ah jine Bock Yawn.”

I looked at his badly angled jaw, and pondered his haphazard speech. We had been together in several hot spots, but the string was played out.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Dis mah war heah.”

I think his comment soured Cave and Sayles. I reckon it made us all feel a bit like skulkers. I know this: the conversation dwindled and we all leaned back in the shadows of the room, lost in individual thoughts of the future, and I don’t guess the whole gang of us showed up in any of them.


On the morning after, the boys took off by different routes, Cave and Sayles heading south to new things and Turner trotting north for more of the old.

It made me and Holt sad, but Sue Lee and Grace settled next to us, and their mere presence lifted the gloom.

“I have a thing or two to say to you, Jake,” Sue Lee said.

There was a cock crowing nearby, and a bright day of light was coming around. Wilma was rustling up some oatmeal and Orton was out tending the horses. I had a very contented feeling everywhere but in my calf.

“Well, speak up,” I said.

“I think I want a walk,” Holt said. He raised himself and walked weakly to the door. Banged-up ribs are slow to mend. “This ain’t my business.”

“Jake,” Sue Lee said when we were alone. “What’s this trash I hear about you being my fiancé?”

She had that mess of hair of hers hanging wild over her face, but it had a rough charm to it. Her skin was clear and pink and healthy. I guess I did like her pretty well despite some things.

“Oh. So you have heard that. Well, it was sprung on me by Sayles.” I tried a bashful smile on her. “See, they all thought you was carrying my kid ’cause I brung you into camp after, you know, Jack Bull.”

“Ah,” she said, and reared her head way back so she could study me and her nose in one glance. “Do you figure I ought to be married?”

“Yes, if you want to keep fingers from wagging in your face.”

“Oh, that doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it’s also another thing, Sue Lee. They got a name for kids without daddies, you know. It’s not a good one.”

“I know that. So, do you want to marry me, Jake?”

“Naw. Not too bad.”

“Good. That’s good news. I wouldn’t marry you for a wagonload of gold.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I’ll just bet you wouldn’t.”

Grace was on the floor between us, flinging her hands and feet around like a back-rolled turtle.

“I wouldn’t marry you even if you weren’t a runty Dutchman with a nubbin for a finger.”

“Fine,” I said hotly. “That’s damned fine. I wouldn’t want a wife who didn’t have whole teeth. Anyhow, being your man is bad luck. I don’t need to marry any of that.”

That comment wobbled her fine face. Her hands went clawing through her hair.

“Well, it’s true,” she said. “I guess it’s true. That’s why I won’t hook up with any more fighters. I just won’t do it.”

I knew I was somewhat mean as well as a liar. That is the way of the cautious heart.

“You’re not bad luck,” I said. “You have had bad luck, that’s all.”

When I speak nice I suppose it don’t sound quite authentic. She faced down, her eyes on the flopping baby, and shook her head.

“I’d need convincing that you mean that,” she said. “Then I’d need convincing that you were right.”


I went on the mend in the following weeks. The wound no longer hurt too much, but the leg wobbled when I put weight on it.

The days at Orton Brown’s had a routine to them. Orton, who I had grown fond of, rose each morning in time to mock the cockcrow. He slopped his hogs and tended the horses, and by the time that was done Wilma had a breakfast ready.

After eating, I would languish at the sunniest window and Holt would go for a long walk, no matter the weather. Generally I would be stuck with Grace while Sue Lee pitched in with Wilma at whatever chores the day required. I tried corraling the babe on my sunny bit of floor, but she did baby things. The floor was dirty and splintery and new to her, so she licked at it. She tried crawling away at my every unaware moment and drove me cranky and practical right quick. I took a lash of rope and tied one end to my ankle and noosed the other on her leg and gained a moment of peace for myself. The kid, anchored or no, pitched out bawling sounds worse than a gut-shot Yank on a real hot day. I never did anything to provoke these bellows, but once Sue Lee walked by in the midst of one and said, “Sweet thing wants some suck, but Momma is busy.”

I understand what that meant well enough, but I knew that I could not duplicate the feat. A man just ain’t a mother and that’s all there is to it. But the next time she went into an infant rant, I had that in mind. I tried manly angles of diversion on the child. I crooned raspy lullabies and made carnival faces and attempted various unlearned tricks. None of it worked. The tiny face stayed soured up and the bawling became desperate.

I picked Grace up after all her squally prompting. To caress or strangle her was the question in my mind. I swung her about, swaying on my gimpy leg, hoping movement and embrace might calm her. It didn’t, so I ran my free hand over her cheeks to pinch them and my nubbin passed those infant lips and she clamped right onto it. She went silent on the instant and gummed away at that nubbin. My stump was exactly acceptable to a cantankerous babe after suck.

I staggered on one wound and soothed with another.

It was the sudden silence I reckon that brung Sue Lee into the room, her eyes all suspicious. She watched my soothing exercise for a moment, not too thrilled with it, and said, “I suppose I’ll feed her.”

“Hell, no, you won’t,” I said. “I’ve just now got this thing under control.”

“She needs to be suckled, Jake.”

I gimped back toward the front room with old spoilsport giving chase. I turned away from her, and as she turned after me my leg gave out and I about fell. I wouldn’t want to hurt the babe for anything, so I had to give her up to Momma.

“Here now,” Sue Lee said. She sat in a chair by the window and cradled Grace to her chest. I was standing right there, but she unbuttoned her blouse and let a big pink-nippled breast flop out. Seeing one gave me a good notion of how the pair would look. She just stared right at me, a saucy, sassy gleam to her eyes, as Grace slurped after suck.

I collapsed to the floor. This business had always been kept private before. The scene this process made sort of jolted me. I had to watch it. That woman had a holy expression on her face that most any god would covet.

I slid across the floor to get closer. I sat at her feet and intently studied the effect of a nipple on a suckling child. Sue Lee studied me about as intently, but she didn’t turn away and she didn’t say scat.

My nature really rose seeing her that way. Probably it shouldn’t have, but, mister, it did.


At night Holt and me stretched out on the floor. I could tell by the way he breathed that he was awake. It had gotten to where sleep didn’t lead to rest. I suppose that after some weeks of safety, grief and shudders had caught up to us.

When I reckoned myself to be in slumber, a number of rude deeds were embellished in dreams. I had a glimpse of the black tongues on the hanged. Whole sequences of pistols and bloodied heads played out. Jack Bull Chiles tried to peel an apple with only one arm and a dripping stump. This one thing hit me over and over: a smart sprout of a Dutch boy being back-shot. And on one night of fevered fictions, Pitt Mackeson slinked up to finish the job on me.

This startled me awake. I sat up.

“Can’t sleep?” Holt asked.

“Naw. These quilts are too heavy. They make me sweat.”

“Mine, too.”

There were also the live nightmares to occupy my thoughts. Orton had gotten in the habit of relaying rumors about the boys and Black John. He said they were being hurt by the Federals but still did some fighting, a lot of robbing and too much scalping. He had claimed that Black John was dead, but I didn’t think it was so. I could well believe that the Cause had been set loose in the lust for loot. Anyone could have seen it coming.

I wondered if all the war I had slopped through had gone for naught, so I said to Holt, “Holt, was all that fighting for naught?”

I lit a candle while I waited on his answer.

“How would I know?” he said. The little flame flickered and did shadowy things on our faces. “What it is I do know is all them dead niggers in Lawrence. I can’t toss them dead niggers out of my mind.”

“It was a lot of dead types in Lawrence,” I said.

“They didn’t spare a single nigger.”

“They didn’t want to spare anybody, Holt.”

“Jake, what I think of the boys is this: niggers and Dutchies is their special targets. Why was we with them?”

“Why, to stop the Yankee aggressors.”

“But we didn’t stop them.”

“No.”

“And the boys shot you and the boys shot me.”

“That was personal,” I said. “Personal ain’t war.”

Holt chewed on that for a moment. He had a proud look on his face, and I knew he was lost for what to do next.

“George is dead, Jack Bull is dead, Riley is dead and Pitt Mackeson is alive. Now, where does that leave you and me, Jake? Where does that leave me?”

This was one of those times I was supposed to have an answer. But there was no revelations on my side of the candle neither, so I said, “Right here, Holt.”

He did a stretched-lip look of disgust. I guess I was a disappointment.

“I knew we were here,” he said. “And this ain’t nowhere for me.”


Later on Holt snored and I didn’t. I took a candle and slid over the floor to my satchel. I had an errand to do and I needed my writing implements to bring it off.

For an address I put down “The Bull Family of Frankfort, Kentucky.”

Dear Mother and Missus Chiles, I wrote. I hope this letter finds you. I am only guessing as to where you are. Missus Chiles, will you please read this to Mother?

There is sad news. Jack Bull is dead, slain by the invaders, as was his father before him. The thing to say is he died for his nation I guess. Actually a doctor might have staved off infection, but there was none and this laid him low. He made as dignified a passing as was possible and there is no reason to be anything but proud of him. I loved him as a brother and you know it.

Mother, Father’s death torments me so. I know I gave him little but argument. His fascination with General Sigel and all things Federal never took hold in me. I gave him grief for that. I still believe he is wrong; we don’t have to tolerate invaders just because they have uniforms and high-sounding titles. That is an Old World trait and I won’t have it. But I never wanted Father hurt over me. We all walked in the dark. I feel I killed him in too many ways. I won’t babble off the whole long list of my regrets.

I hope to someday see you both again. It would be best in a peaceful spot, but it would be good anywhere. I don’t think it will happen soon.

There is one more thing, and I say it only in confidence, and solely to give hope. Jack Bull fathered a girl child last winter and she is a close image of him. I will try to care for the babe as much as fortune allows, for Jack Bull would wish it of me.

I have too much more to say to say anything.

I am wounded somewhat and where I am headed is unknown. It probably won’t be where you are. With all my regards, Jacob.